Covet
by seghen
Summary: Do not covet thy neighbor's wife. He did not think of this as he slowly fell in love with her, though all the while knowing that she would never reciprocate his sentiments. She had Ron, the love of her life. But that would change, in good time...or woul


**THIS IS A REVISION OF COVET. somethin kinda bad happened a few hours ago and i thought that this would be a good distraction. i got one of my first flames on this story so i decided that perhaps a revision is in order, no matter if it's two months late.**

She fidgeted uncomfortably in the plush, overstuffed armchair that she had taken refuge in earlier. She attempted to retain a comfortable position but, alas, it seemed nearly impossible.

The words he spoke rang like brass bells in her mind, the scene replaying in her head, his every expression, every line in his face as he spoke with such utter contempt and pain which he tried so desperately hard to conceal. _Why?_

The question opened up numerous doors, multiple answers. Hermione Granger was never the type to say something as hypocritical as 'because I said so' or 'because I felt like it', such phrases were lost upon her in her superior intellect.

She had seen it in his eyes when he gazed on her, the stare went unrecquinted and unappreciated. She did not want him, but he longed for her.

Hermione was no woman of extraordinary beauty, though her talents were astounding, especially for a Muggleborn. She was a bit plain, though not unattractive, but her wit was unmatched. Unlike most who would long to be with him, certain moral Gryffindors and choice Ravenclaws aside, she did not long for his company in any way, shape or form. He knew that she never would. And this bothered to no end.

Obsession was not a phrase he used lightly, but it seemed necessary to explain his fixation. It was not acquired over one moment of kindness, for they never exchanged such a moment. It did not happen when, for some odd reason, he saw her with Weasley and grimaced, realizing that she was _forbidden fruit. _He left the fantasy of Harlequin Romances to their writers, and he was not as interested in her body as he was in captivating her being, soul and essence included.

Through the six years of schooling he did not once look upon her in a lustful manner. She disgusted him. He did not long to touch her, nor did he fantasize about the day that they would become carnally acquainted, or whatever saying fit him for the moment. But he knew that he was in love with her.

She shuttered, recalling the hours she waited for Ron to return to her, though he never came back. On instinct she rubbed the diamond on her ring finger, gazing into the flickering firelight wantingly, willing him to return to her.

But he had seen to that. She despised him, wished him nothing but the utmost contempt and a life of shame and ridicule, but he could not look away. She was not an enchanting beauty, but she was wonderful in some way. Spectacular in the aspect that she would never be his, but he would never stop watching her.

He watched Hermione and Ron together, the epitome of a happily married couple. He heard his whispers to her of "I love you," and all the sort and he could not help but fume in the rage and injustice of it all.

He even saw their wedding, listened to the vows they exchanged, how he promised to 'love her for all eternity' and 'support her until his dying day.' Oh, if Ron knew how literal it was perhaps he would have refrained from saying such things. Maybe he would not care.

The war was far from over, but a new battle was just beginning. He did not wish her death or harm, but the mere idea of her being any other man's made him violently and physically ill. He knew. He was no fool, he had not ranked second in grades and sixth in O.W.L.S for nothing. He knew that she would never be his. That she would never consent to such an arrangement. That did not stop him.

Ronald Weasley was proclaimed dead by St. Mungo's Head Healer, Augustus Croft, on the nineteenth of September at nine-twenty-seven in the evening. Hermione was alerted soon afterwards via owl, and he watched her carefully, studied every expression.

She looked mild when she picked up the note, almost irritated as though she expected it to be from Ron, apologizing, but her face suddenly transformed into the epitome of shock and grief. Hermione was too strong a girl to faint, but she did pale and even turn a light shade of puce after she finished reading the letter, collapsing onto the arm chair where she, strangely, sat ten months later, after he had declared his intentions.

Draco Malfoy was no man to be gushy and romantic, and had simply been curt. "I am in love with you, Granger." And he left her with those words before he whirled out of her study, littered with articles about Ron's death and moving photographs of him with both her and Harry.

Though she had long since expected this, it still shocked her, each of his words simple and not melodramatic. He had not doled out the news for dramatic effect, he had spoken and she had listened, though rather unintentionally.

She raked her fingers through her dark hair casually, but her eyes gave away her revulsion. She had known the moment that he had spoken that it was he who had murdered her love. It was he who had eliminated every chance of her own happiness.

"You did this to him, you bastard." She had muttered, not quite looking him in the eye as she spoke, her nostrils flared and her eyes watering.

A lesser being would have been enraged and, in this stupor, would have thrown herself atop him and began attacking him the old fashioned way, fists and biting, her wand near forgotten, animal instinct taking over. But she had refrained, clutching the edge of her mahogany desk so tightly that her knuckles whitened, uninhibited tears springing from her eyes. She had not cried for months.

Then she asked it. The very question that she had never wished to ask if she ever found her husband's killer. In truth she did not wish to know but, nonetheless, you know what they say about curiosity.

"Why?" The word sounded so weak and yet powerful at the very same moment, filled with sadness and rage simultaneously. He was nearly out the door when she asked, and he could not say that it was wholly unexpected that she had put the pieces together.

"I thought I already answered that in my aforementioned statement." He said coldly, straightening his robes and fixing every wrinkle that was set in his clothing.

"No, I do not believe that you did." She barked her rebuttal, feeling foolish for crying yet justified at the same time. "You think you know me so well? Well, you should've known that I would NEVER be with you, you pathetic monster."

Malfoy looked back at her, not allowing his gaze to soften nor become more severe. She despised his restraint and loathed him for taking the one man she had ever loved away from her, but she would not kill him. Nay, it would be better to leave him with this, her hate justified for more than just school rivalry.

"You're beautiful, you know." He informed her, not romantically, mind you, but with abrupt coldness. "Not your features, but who you are. _We _could have been beautiful. I could not stand the thought of you choosing him over me." He snarled, his lip curling at the thought.

She let out a harsh bark of humorless laughter, tossing her hair over her shoulders unblinkingly. "Me choosing him over you? Malfoy, you were never even in the bloody running." She snapped, her eyes alight light dying embers in a once roaring fire. "I would never have been yours. I would rip the very eyes from your sockets, but that would entail that you would be incapable of looking at your own grotesque reflection in the mirror." She stated, her lips suddenly feeling dried and chapped and her body incapable of movement.

There was no witty banter to accompany this. No snide remarks about how easy it was to kill him. Nothing. And he left, though not forever. He still watched her, even moments later when she collapsed on the very chair she had fallen into when she learnt the news of her beloved's demise.

He knew that she was thinking, that brilliant brain whirring like the mechanisms in a clock. She was not the type to exact revenge using hate and magic, she knew that this could destroy a person. No, she was the type to speak her mind and watch as her words ate away at him until there would be nothing left but bones and a hideous marred soul.

He wondered in vain when and if she would give in. If the death that surrounded her would frighten her into his arms. But deep down, he knew better. She still belonged to Weasley, and she would not so much as touch him in fear of catching his revolting disease.

And this, the knowledge is what drove him insane. He could have everything, anything, but he could never have her.

**review, please? kinda dark, but, eh, it was what i was feeling. i hope this explains things better for those who thought that she would ever be with Malfoy after he did such a thing.**


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